


Etemmu

by aphelion_orion



Category: Lamento -BEYOND THE VOID-
Genre: Afterlife, M/M, Sex, wish-granting demons, world-building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion_orion/pseuds/aphelion_orion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is stranger than fiction. And it includes some strange room mates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dying was not what he had expected.

Dying was... not the spirit leaving the flesh. Not ascendance, and not transcendence, because all of these implied awareness, implied movement. Perhaps the simplest way of putting it was that dying... was not.

Dying was a moment of utter fury, the space between closing his eyes and drawing a breath, feeling the viper's poison rage in his body, and reopening his eyes to darkness. No transition, no loss of awareness. Only complete darkness and utter agony.

It was more pain than any sword, any spear or arrow had ever brought him. It felt like his body was being torn to shreds from the inside out, like something was being ripped out of him and what remained was twisting, coiling, being _compressed_ into something else, something _other_ , while at the same time, outwardly, nothing was happening at all.

Or so it seemed to him at that time.

Later, of course, after the pain and the screaming and the fire, the _fire_ that was more than the flames of the ceremonial torches, more than the burning of the snake venom in his veins, he came to realize that this observation—however broad the term might be, since he had by no means been in a state to _observe_ at the time—was quite false.

In retrospect, he was not sure how he could have missed it for so long, did, in fact, not discover the outward changes until he had recovered enough to pull himself up into a sitting position, and, in a habitual manner bred from a lifetime of being surrounded by courtiers, reached up to fix his hair.

The horns were vaguely crescent-shaped, blunted at the tips, their texture more like smoothed obsidian than animal horn, and—as he would later discover, when there was light to illuminate and water to mirror—black like the stone, too.

The tail was sleek and cool, the skin foreign to the touch, neither furred nor scaled, and as black as cold lava.

In his land, there had been tales of children born with tails, seen as ill omens, spoken of as demons and slaughtered before they could bring misfortune. He himself had been called the devil-king by his enemies, a merciless tyrant.

Neither of those, he supposed, could be used to explain what had happened to him. Nor where he was.

Razel had always been too much of a scholar, too much of a skepticist, to truly believe in the realm of anything divine, be it good or evil. And although he had not _experienced_ death in the traditional sense, he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that he was no longer human, no longer _alive_.

For in his chest, right in the place where his heartbeat should be, had begun a slow, steady pulse of fire.

\-----

It did not take long for him to discover that this place, wherever it was, _whatever_ it was, was not like ordinary space.

Underneath his bare feet, the ground did not feel like ground—neither like gravel nor like stone, neither dry nor wet, neither smooth nor rough. It felt like darkness would feel if one could give it shape and form. Likewise, the air was neither cold nor warm, neither stale nor fresh, though the fact that he could feel it curling over his naked skin like a soft breeze first misled him into thinking that this place had an opening, an exit, to allow the air to circulate.

But after stumbling along in the darkness for who knew how long, blind and weak like a newborn animal, undignified, all he was able to conclude was that the space seemed vaguely cavernous, like a vast hall with no exits, no niches or windows. No walls, even, which was paradoxical in itself, since he could definitely _feel_ a certain kind of spatial limitation.

No sounds, either, save for the soft noise of water, lapping on the invisible shore of a great lake.

At first, Razel thought he could reach the lake if he kept following the sound, much like he had assumed that trying to discern the direction of the breeze would lead him to an exit. He had believed that, even if he could not see it, he would at least be able to feel his feet sinking into water. However long he walked, though, nothing happened, no matter if he walked towards the center of the cavern or away from it.

He did not encounter water, just like he did not encounter walls.

After a while, he was beginning to wonder if there even _was_ a center.

Likewise, there were no hidden traps, no trials he had to pass, no sudden appearance of any sort of entity to judge the weight of his soul. It was not like he had ever really bought into the concepts of reward and punishment after death, but he had expected there to be... something. Not just this dark nothingness, which seemed to defy all laws of existence.

Eventually, Razel stopped his aimless wandering. He could not shake the feeling that although his body, drained from the transformation into whatever he had become, was telling him that he had walked a great distance, he had not really changed position at all. Sitting down, he drew one leg up to his chest—a childish position unfit for a king, though he was king no longer—and stared ahead into the darkness.

He felt tired, exhausted, his mind balking at the space around him, the situation, no matter how much he forced it to comprehend, to accept, to analyze. How shameful, that the intellect he had always prided himself on should fail him so, that it could not even provide him with words to describe this fatigue, a great, foreign weariness that seemed to originate less from his body than from his—no, not his heart, it was a heart no more. Its pulse was coming slower, minute bursts of something indefinable.

Razel closed his eyes, listening to its silent flickering. It was no longer burning like it had been at first, but it still felt warm, like the residual heat of ash. And while he was perusing the strangeness of that inner pulse, his mind began to drift, to slip little by little.

If he had been aware of it, he might have tried to stop it, to stay focused and attempt to solve the puzzle he had been presented with, but as it was, he did not even feel it when his body was engulfed in a red flare, and, in a second, was gone.

\----

When Razel opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find himself not on the floor of that dark place, but staring into colorful brightness.

He could not say for how long he had rested, except that he felt much better.

Blinking to banish the haze of sleep, the light seemed not quite as strong, and he was able to make out that it was filtering through fine, transparent veils of cloth hanging above his head and to his sides, long, thin draperies of gold and purple. The subtle scent of incense was hanging in the air.

He frowned.

It reminded him of something, though he could not immediately say what it was. He sat up, pushing back the sheets... and paused, thunderstruck.

He was lying on an elaborate bed, its posts carved into the shape of the sun disk at the top, and beyond the veils, he could make out the very familiar shapes of other furniture—chests, a heavy desk overflowing with scrolls, large pillows and low chairs grouped around a spindly-legged table.

Even without pushing aside the draperies to see clearly, Razel knew where he was. He recognized the shapes, the colors, the _smell_ , knew that if he should reach over his head and underneath the pillow, he would find the hilt of his dagger in its sheath of gold and jewels. He had spent the last twenty-two years in this room, from the time that he had barely been tall enough to fit the ornamentations symbolizing his power, not to mention the bed.

For a moment, he almost thought that everything had been a nightmare, that he had dreamt the void, the agony, the ministers and healers keeping vigil at his bed during his week-long fever, the poisonous snake fangs piercing his flesh.

For a moment, he almost expected everything to resume its normal course, for a knock at the door to signal the arrival of his morning tea, for the shy call of a maid to inform him that his bath was ready.

Then, the pulse flared hotly in his chest, shattering the illusion of normalcy.

Wherever this was, it was not home.

Razel was quite certain that this should, if not worry, then at the very least unsettle him. That someone or something should know enough about him to craft such a mirage, for an unknown purpose. He thought he ought to feel, if not sadness, then at least a certain sense of loss for what he had left behind. Had been forced to leave behind.

However, the predominant emotion—no, the _only_ emotion—he could summon was a slow-roiling anger, anger at the ones responsible for his death, forever out of the reach of his wrath, coupled with a vague sense of irritation at the fact that this place would not even begin to make sense to him.

\----

For some reason, the strangest thing his mind was able to focus on was the absence of the maids.

Normally, there would have been at least a pair of them, flitting nervously about his chambers to fetch his robes and jewelry, while a third one would gently (and no less nervously) smudge khol under his eyes with near surgical precision. They had always annoyed him, as he had deemed their assistance mostly useless, but after a while, he had given up on ordering them out. It was hardly the girls' fault that his advisors refused to take the hint, and he much preferred their skin unmarred by the marks of punishment.

Now, their absence only served to drive home the point that everything here, from the pins he used to fix his hair to the light streaming in from between the columns on the far side of the room, was part of an illusory world.

It annoyed him that his mind chose to flee from the problems at hand like that, a proof that, no matter how much his people had revered him as the god-king, he was—or at least had been—still human. And the human mind, it seemed, did not deal well with paradoxes.

Razel did not know what to expect beyond the doors to his chambers, was half uncertain whether they would even allow themselves to be opened, but they gave under the slightest push, revealing the long corridor lined with pillars on the outside. He found, with a certain amount of surprise, that he was thus able to travel the entire palace, his footsteps echoing in the great halls paved with marble, making crunching sounds on the garden paths as he walked between the yellow chrysanthemums.

He could not shake the feeling, though, that he was not getting anywhere, was not _truly_ moving despite exploring even places he had rarely gone to, such as the kitchens.

Naturally, he did not meet a single soul, neither watchman nor servant, not that he had expected to see anyone. It felt strange, almost eerie, to see this vast palace silenced, to spend an indefinite amount of time walking without being pestered by an advisor or messenger, to hear no sound save the tapping of his own feet.

Here and there, however, he did manage to glimpse strange inconsistencies in the illusion—little things that were not as they should be. The most blatant one was the ancient almond tree in the east wing gardens, in whose shade he had often dwelt in his scarce free time, and which had fallen victim to the great drought during the fifth year after his coronation. And yet, here it stood, its gnarled branches laden with soft pink blossoms.

And there were other things, too, such as the great mural in front of the third tower, which had been damaged during the last siege on the city, but did not bear a single mark here, or the inexplicable disappearance of a horribly tacky statue of his person, which he had never liked.

These changes did not make any sense, Razel thought, for why should they have been made? It was almost as if the illusion... was trying to _appease_ him.

Abruptly, he stopped.

Illusions obeyed the will of the illusionist, no matter if they were of the magical kind or a simple self-deception. A person dying of thirst in the desert would see what they desired to see the most, and the changes that had occurred in this very obvious illusion had all affected objects he had either never wished to be damaged or had wanted to see gone. The illusion was bending to his _own_ liking.

Razel could not help the laugh that escaped him upon this realization. What wonderful irony, to be fooled by his own mind!

Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on a single thought.

 _I wish to leave this place._

Without warning, the left side of his chest flared hotly, startling him into opening his eyes. In front of him, a red flame had appeared, burning as tall as him, a strange crest with the sun disk at its center seemingly glowing from within like a shadow.

Razel stretched out his hand to touch it, and although the flame enveloped his arm, it did not singe him.

He smiled thinly. This would not be the first time he had walked through fire.

The flame consumed him.

\----

Finding himself back in the black nothingness with the flame still flickering steadily behind him, its red glow almost immediately swallowed up by the darkness, poked holes into his theory.

The illusion had not broken like he had expected it to, the presence of the flame proof enough. It remained behind him, wavering gently, beckoning, almost like a portal.

And for some reason, he felt a strange sense of possession from it—or towards it?—almost as if it belonged to him. Frowning, Razel decided to test a new theory.

 _I want to return,_ he thought, and stepped into the flame again.

There was a brief sense of displacement, and he found himself back in the palace gardens. How curious.

The flame was burning brightly.

 _I wish to leave._

Another moment of strangeness, and Razel found himself surrounded by darkness again. Behind him the flame flickered a little, but did not wane. He walked around it, but there was nothing hiding behind it. The flame and its crest were the same from the other side, not three-dimensional but flat, like a mirror surface without a reflection.

 _I want you to close_ , he thought.

The portal closed, the flame consuming itself until there was only darkness left.

 _I want you to open._

Once more, Razel felt the rush of heat in his chest, but this time, he kept his eyes open, saw the flame expanding like a hole opening in thin air.

He smiled. The power was his to command.

\----

With some modicum of control over his fate restored, Razel found his curiosity piqued.

He spent a great deal of time exploring his new capabilities, and soon discovered that the portal was far from the only thing he could do. Concentrating on the source of power hidden in his chest brought about a variety of results, such as being able to levitate, to spontaneously combust objects or to call forth true fire.

It seemed to be the only element he had control over, though, since all his efforts of conjuring up wind or water only resulted in rather violent explosions, as if the magic were protesting the impossibility of his will. In the end, it mattered little. Razel had always had an affinity for heat, even though his people had preferred the torrential rains and their bounty.

So he began to hone this new power, which took up the majority of his time. Exactly how long he spent like this, he could not say for certain, as time did not seem to exist in the void, and although day and night seemed to alternate in the palace, the sun rising and setting, the moon waxing and waning, Razel knew better than to use them as indicators of time.

He had quickly discovered, for example, that he no longer felt hungry or thirsty. Although it was possible to summon any type of meal within the alterable space—as he had come to call the location of the palace, since he found the term "illusion" to be insufficient—there had been the question of whether or not it could even provide him with energy. However, Razel soon found out that no matter how long he waited, he never felt the urge to drink or eat, and could not discern any change to his body.

Likewise, he discovered that he did not require sleep. After he had first collapsed in the void and awoken in the palace, he had never felt any sense of fatigue again, the heat in his chest a strong, unfaltering pulse.

Despite these discoveries, Razel felt more comfortable with following the routine he had established in his life as a human, eating when the fancy struck him, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep when he tired of his explorations. He found that it was easier to exist within those patterns, however superficial they were now, to keep himself sane.

As much as his limitations annoyed him, he was well aware of his own origins. His mind was still used to human conditions and human concepts, and Razel had no desire to test the limits of his sanity all at once.

He was all too aware that death had not taken him where the dead usually went. He had been given an immortal body, one that required neither nutrition nor rest, one that did not tire however much energy he expended. The consequences were lurking at the edges of his awareness, but he refused to consider them for the moment.

The human mind did not deal well with solitude, after all.

Or eternity.

\----

One thing that bothered him greatly was his apparent lack of purpose.

Razel was convinced that his situation was an unusual one—he deliberately avoided applying the word "unique" to it—but when it came to how he had ended up here, in this timeless space that molded itself to his will, and what he was supposed to _do_ here, he found himself unable to explain anything.

Reward or punishment could not figure into it; the fact aside that these concepts were the imagination of the masses, hope for justice beyond death for no reason other than that it seemed to be so absent in life, there were forces at work here. Forces he could not yet fully comprehend, puzzle pieces that were lacking too many others to allow themselves to be assembled into a complete picture.

There was the pulse, the fire, the crest. His inexhaustible energy, which had to come from a source, but which he was unable to pinpoint. His curiously limited range of emotions—excitement, pleasure, confusion, loss... they were still there, but muted, hazy, as if they were echoing from far away, almost as if they had to cross time to reach him. The only thing that rang clear and true was frustration.

All these things had to have a reason, his _existence_ had to have a reason.

It was bothersome not to have an answer to any of it. And when the answer finally came, it could not have been more mundane.

\----

He did not find words for it until some time later.

It was like... not quite a pull, not quite a push. Not a call, because there was no voice, no direction. Not really a command, either, more like an irrefutable _need_ , one that would not be disobeyed by any amount of willpower.

In that moment, though, Razel was only aware of his surroundings suddenly swimming out of focus, and when he blinked, he was no longer where he had been.

He was standing in a small room filled with books and various gadgets—some he recognized as geometric instruments or maps, others he could not even begin to describe—in the middle of what appeared to be a summoning circle. He had seen some of them in his lifetime, mostly from priests conducting rituals during ceremonies, but this one was fundamentally different. The lines were glowing with an unseen fire, and beneath his feet, directly in the center, Razel could make out the unmistakable silhouette of his own crest, the symbol of his power.

A small noise made his head snap back up, and he realized that a man was standing a few feet away, half-wrapped in the shadows cast by the glow of the circle. He seemed to shrink back under Razel's stare, his hands fluttering in apprehension.

Razel quirked an eyebrow. That, at least, was a reaction he was used to.

"Uh," the man wheezed, looking as surprised as Razel felt. "Uh, I—"

Razel's silence seemed to give him confidence, because the man abruptly straightened, taking a few steps forward. When he spoke again, his voice was formal, the nervous tremble tightly controlled, "I, Azelas, have summoned thee, spirit of the underworld. I command thee to do as I say."

 _Summoned. I have been summoned. To do any fool's bidding._

Suppressing the hot bout of irritation that bubbled up inside him, Razel waited for the man to continue.

"Bestow upon me the secrets of the universe! I wish to know. I wish to know everything!"

Razel frowned at the man, who had grown more and more excited during his speech, eyes gleaming in anticipation. He was not sure what he had been expecting, maybe a request for some kind of assistance, or advice, but not...

And yet, he could feel the pulse answering, _knew_ , with absolute certainty, that he could grant this fool's wish.

"Well, well?" the man demanded eagerly.

Razel tilted his head. "And what makes you think yourself worthy of the secrets of the universe?"

"I..." The man faltered for a moment, before raising himself up to his full height, which was a pitiful endeavor at best. "That's of no concern to you. I summoned you, so you have to obey."

The man's sheer gall was astounding. In his kingdom, Razel had had people beheaded for so much as breathing at him in the wrong way. To think that he should allow this _halfwit_ to speak to him in such a manner...

A thin smirk formed at the corners of his mouth. "Very well. As you command."

The crest flared to life in his outstretched palm, and he could feel the power flow, entirely different from its usual form.

For a moment, nothing happened, the man's gaze remaining fixed on the fiery symbol. Then, his eyes began to widen, the eyeballs bulging almost comically, the blood vessels rupturing from the strain, a horrible awareness flickering and dying in them as his mind was being consumed by information.

Razel looked on dispassionately as the man dropped to his knees, clutching at his head, the veins on his forehead emerging as his brain was struggling to cope with all the knowledge in the world. Thin trickles of blood were starting to dribble out of his ears, and finally, his mouth opened in a shrill, wordless scream.

The last thing Razel saw—one that would provide him with a sense of satisfaction for days to come—was the man's hand twitching to reach for him, a gesture that might have been pleading if he had had the capacity to express something so complicated, before the flames enveloped him, taking him back to the void.

\----

To know that he had been degraded to an entity that could be summoned, a mere _servant_ to mortals, might have irked him more if not for his triumph over the fool. It helped that he was only called on sporadically, of course, and to know that although he was forced to answer a summon, he had control over the manner in which the wish was fulfilled.

Not all humans who had the courage to call on him were quite as stupid as the first one; some seemed to know very well what to ask for and how to ask, treating him with due respect. No matter if they were prudent or foolish, though, all their wishes were essentially the same. Power (to rule, to subjugate, to possess). Wealth (in gold, in jewels, or land). Wisdom (to predict, to control, to prevent). Razel did not distinguish between good and evil wishes, knew somehow that he could not have refused a wish even if he had wanted to, but as it was, he simply did not care.

That world was not really his concern anymore, after all.

\----

His most reliable indicator of time, besides the changing attire of his various summoners, turned out to be the library. Razel had discovered, to his immense surprise, that the palace library did not merely contain the scrolls which he had read during his lifetime, although this would have been the logical assumption.

It did, in fact, present him with _all_ the texts that had been stored there during his reign, and not merely empty scrolls and jars. This left him with ample material to peruse, and although he had always delighted in this pastime, he had now become a compulsive reader. It kept his mind occupied and satisfied his thirst for knowledge, although he made little distinction between texts. He was able to appreciate tales and poems for their aesthetic characteristics just as much as the scientific notes on the movement of the stars, although he had been inarguably more interested in non-fictional works during his human life.

After some time, however, Razel noticed that his supply of reading material did not seem to diminish, but rather the opposite— it was ever-growing; whenever he was summoned, the library would present him with new works upon his return, books appearing in foreign shapes, bound in leather, ebony, silk, detailing discoveries no one could have made before or during his reign, describing events that could not possibly have occurred without his knowledge.

Razel soon arrived at the conclusion that his brief contact with these summoners, obnoxious as most of them were, was what allowed these works to appear, a strange connection between his realm and the real world. The books were not really books, he knew, they only appeared in this guise.

As much as it irked him to be so dependent on often foolish mortals, Razel knew that this was the closest way—the only way—to expand his own horizon, since his power did not, paradoxically, allow him to grant his own wishes. Not that he had any desire to force the truth of the universe into his mind and break like a pitiful human, but he thought that given the time, he might discover it.

 _A monkey writing letters at random for an infinite amount of time stands a chance of producing a literary masterpiece, after all, is that not how the saying goes?_

\-----

It took longer for him to actually miss the company of people than he had expected. Razel was not sure whether to attribute this to the timelessness of this world, or to the fact that he seldom seemed to experience any emotion at all—not that there was much to be emotional about. On rare occasions, though, he found himself missing the possibility to converse at length.

Summoners, in the odd event that they were worth his time, were few and far between, hardly a compensation for the eternities of silence, which were filled only by his own voice reciting texts aloud, a poor substitute for actual conversation. And he truly did not want to become like the half-mad seers at the temple, who had kept muttering to themselves even when not in a trance, speaking snippets of thoughts fresh from their tattered minds.

The desire to speak with others was something not easily erased from his consciousness, and sometimes his memory would gift him with dreams, washed-out recollections of debates with ministers, conversations with emissaries, even visions of his first wife, the memory tinged with a sentiment that might have been fondness, forever and a century ago. She had been a smart woman, possessed of wit and a strong will, and although he had not loved her, Razel had admired those qualities and enjoyed their exchanges.

These dreams left him restless, and he much preferred to devote his mind to creating new forms of fire magic. It was better not to tempt fate by reflecting too closely on these visions.

That way lay madness.

\----

To say that he had lost track of time was not quite true.

He had not been called on for some time, that he knew, and he also knew that he could utilize the ever-expanding library to trace the years back to his own reign, but he simply found it not worth the bother. After so long, he felt hardly connected to his past life anymore—it simply seemed so very far away.

And Razel would never, ever admit to starting a new count from the time the yellow flame first joined his red one in the void.

\----

Of course, at first, there was no flame.

There was an earthquake that shook the foundations of his palace, even though there was, for all intents and purposes, no earth to quake, coupled with the unmistakable sense of a _presence_ in the void.

And in the void, a man, writhing and screaming at the top of his lungs, in a language more foul than any he had ever heard.

Razel was still trying to decide whether "surprise" could even begin to describe this situation, when the stranger seemed to become aware of his audience, staggered to his feet, and, with a swiftness belying the toll the transformation must have taken on him, charged.

Indeed, "surprise" could not possibly encompass being attacked by a raving, naked man, Razel decided as he dodged the punch aimed at his gut and unceremoniously summoned a wall of fire.

The stranger howled in pain and outrage, stumbling back a few steps and collapsing on the ground, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air. Terminating the flames, Razel slowly approached the fallen man, who was making no efforts to get up. He seemed to be in a fair amount of pain, staring up at Razel with glassy eyes, but as he watched, the wounds began to close, new skin replacing burnt until there was no sign of any damage left.

Then, the man's eyes rolled back into his skull, and Razel was forced to take a step back as the slack body was consumed by a bright, yellow flame. He had the vague impression of a scythe-shaped crest within the fire, before it abruptly died, as if doused by unseen water.

Razel stood staring at the spot for a long time, before shaking his head and summoning his own portal. Things were bound to become interesting.

  
-TBC-

\----

 **A/N:** This, dear, patient readers, happens when I try to write a short fic. I really enjoyed writing Razel, because he is such a mysterious fellow. The next part will be up shortly, but in the meantime, C &C is very much appreciated.

1) Etemmu: Etemmu is a Babylonian term for a dead person's spirit. It is not the same as our concept of a soul, though the definitions spread across the Internet vary greatly. Wikipedia mentions the _etemmu_ in connection with [necromancy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necromancy#Antiquity).  
2) Tie-ins to Lamento canon: I am liberally ignoring any and all tie-in manga or whatever else has been released since I first posted this, three years ago. XD


	2. Chapter 2

He no longer remembered how long it had taken him to awaken from his first exhausted slumber, but it certainly seemed to him like the stranger was taking his sweet time. His own impatience amused him, but could anyone truly fault him, now that that he had been presented with someone who shared his fate?

Razel felt inclined to forgive the rude introductions, as he was not certain how he himself would have reacted to finding another person upon his arrival in the void, but it would certainly be preferable if the stranger proved to be less unreasonable upon waking.

Still, it took a while before he felt the presence in the void again.

Apparently, he arrived just shortly after the stranger had summoned his own portal, because when Razel left his own space, he found the man warily circling the yellow flame. He was now dressed in foreign clothing that would have probably looked ridiculous on anyone else, but Razel's appraisal was cut short when the stranger poked at the flame portal and vanished with a startled yell.

A second later, he came stumbling back out, proclaiming loudly, "I swear to fuck, if I find the guy responsible for the doors in this place, I'm gonna rip him a new one."

Razel could not help himself. His lips twitched.

"Then you would have to start with yourself, I'm afraid," he said, working to keep the amusement out of his voice and not quite managing to.

The stranger whirled to face him, the curse dying on his tongue. "The fu—?!"

Razel politely inclined his head.

The man practically exploded. "What the freaking flying— Who the fuck are you? Are you responsible for this?!"

As he was cursing, he kept advancing, until he was breathing in Razel's face. "I don't know what the hell you're planning, but I suggest you _put me back_ before I fucking beat your miserable—"

He grabbed a fistful of Razel's jacket to yank him even closer.

Razel thought he had tolerated this insolence for long enough, and calmly blasted the stranger away from him. He landed in the darkness a few feet away, miniature fires dying on his clothing, the stink of molten fur and feathers mixing with burnt flesh.

Predictably, his wounds started closing even faster this time around, the singed clothing returning to its original state as Razel stepped closer.

"I suggest you mind your tongue, as I do not consider myself above carving it from your mouth. It would be interesting to see how long it takes for you to grow it back."

For a moment, the man simply stared at him, dumbfounded, before breaking into loud laughter.

Razel blinked, not quite sure what to make of this reaction, and half wondering if the man was not merely a churl, but also not quite right in the head.

"Alright, you," the man said, his burst of hilarity fading to a pleased grin as he clambered to his feet. "You're no pushover. I think I like that."

Despite his sudden change in manner, his agreeability seemed to be barely skin-deep, a thin veneer over an undercurrent of violence, and he held himself like a brawler, too, his stance deceptively relaxed.

"What's your name, huh?" The man jerked his chin at him, a strange kind of interest gleaming in his eyes. Something was curious about them, but in the half-gloom and the shadows cast by the flame portals, Razel was unable to tell what it was.

"...Razel."

For some reason, this seemed to be very funny to the man, because he laughed again. "Hah! Shit, and for a moment, I half thought the religious crazies were right and you were going to say 'Satan'."

Razel raised an eyebrow.

"You certainly look the part, though, what with the horns and the fire and brimstone."

The second eyebrow rose to join the first. "I do believe that this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black, as they say."

For a moment, the man stared at him blankly, before awareness dawned on his face. "Oh, that." He reached up, fingering one of the horns protruding from the top of his head. "What the hell is up with _that_ , anyway?"

Razel snorted. "Where I come from, it is common practice to at least state your name when demanding that of another person."

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly not happy with the admonition. "Verg."

Razel nodded. "Well, then, _Verg_ , I do not like conversations in the dark, and this will take a while." He gestured at the red portal. "This is perhaps best discussed over tea."

\----  
"You've got to be shitting me."

The man—Verg—was attempting to slouch in one of the ornamented chairs, the cup of steaming mint tea balanced precariously close to his lap. He had not touched the tea again after the first tentative sip, and although he had refrained from more cursing, his expression had spoken volumes.

He was, without a doubt, the most ridiculously out-of-place person to ever visit Razel's chambers.

Razel had decided to ignore his guest's ill manners and was contently sipping his third cup of tea, after having delivered an abridged version of an explanation that sounded almost as unsatisfactory in its full length, and likely sounded even more unsatisfactory to his counterpart.

During the fairly one-sided conversation, Verg's eyes had kept flitting about the room, straying from this object to that, but always returning to rest on Razel, and he had known, without a doubt, that the man was not merely curious, but sizing him up. In his old life, he would have been reluctant to let any stranger into his private sanctum so easily, especially a stranger who seemed to have no qualms about attacking first and asking questions later, but he had concluded that Verg was, at least in his current condition, no match for him.

At least, he had been able to discover what was not right about the man's eyes—they were of two different colors, one gray and one green, which had a fairly bewildering effect, but one Razel was determined to master.

Currently, Verg's eyes were fixed on him again, almost comically wide.

"You've _got_ to be _shitting_ me," he repeated, straightening a little and making a face when some of the tea spilled on his hands.

"It is all I know," Razel said easily, lowering his cup. "I suppose it is a little difficult to comprehend."

Verg glared. "No kidding."

Silence for a moment, save for the quiet rustling of the draperies in a desert wind that was merely a memory.

"So... we're dead," Verg prompted eventually.

"Not quite, no."

"What do you mean, not quite. It's either yes or no, I don't like this cryptic talk."

Razel narrowed his eyes just slightly. "When I say 'not quite', I mean 'not quite'. We are a paradox, neither dead nor alive in the true sense of the word. But if you take 'death' to mean that we have forfeited our human existence, then the answer is 'yes'. That is all there is to it."

"This," Verg said with conviction, "makes no sense. I mean, if what you're saying is true, then this can't be the way things normally go, right? If you've never met anyone else..."

Razel shook his head. "You are the first."

"...Huh. Guess we're two special snowflakes, then. Question is just, why?"

Razel shrugged. "I had hoped your arrival would provide me with an answer."

Verg made a displeased noise in the back of his throat, drawing his eyebrows together. "Well, shit. Don't ask me. I don't even remember kicking the bucket."

"Pardon?"

Verg's expression soured. " _Dying_. All I remember is finally taking down those fucking rebels, and how damn _good_ that was, best damn thing in my life, and then... poof. I'm here. Thought somebody conked me in the head at first, but that doesn't account for those." He tapped his horns.

Frowning deeply, Razel set his cup down. All he remembered of dying was wrath, wrath at those who had _dared_... And ever since then, it seemed to be the only thing he was able to feel clearly, everything else muted, distant, as if experienced through a veil...

Abruptly, he looked up. "How are you feeling?"

" _What_?"

"I mean, _what_ are you feeling, right now? Are you angry? Sad? Confused?"

"What are you, some kind of zombie-shrink?" Verg asked, looking at him like he had grown another head.

Razel glared. "Just answer the question."

Verg glared back, but relented. "I dunno. Kind of confused, a bit. I mean, that sort of thing confuses anyone, right? Mostly good, though. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Good…" Razel repeated skeptically.

"Heck, if you want to name it, I feel _great_. Ready to take on anything, and all that."

Verg was leaning back, a pleased smirk on his lips, and all at once, the realization hit Razel like the _Zard Kuh_ had just come crumbling down on top of him.

"Emotions," he murmured.

"Huh?" Verg was looking at him again, eyebrows raised, and Razel was not quite certain how much of what was going on inside him was visible on his face, but for the moment, he did not really care.

" _Emotions_ are the key to this. You say you felt pleasure when you died. You feel pleasure now, instead of anything else."

"You mean..."

"I was angry when I died. I do not recall ever being so furious before in my life. Now, the emotion that is most accessible to me... is anger."

Verg said nothing for a very long time, silently digesting this revelation. When he spoke again, his voice was serious, devoid of its brash edge and cursing. "So you're saying... feelings are responsible for putting us here? _Our_ feelings?"

Razel nodded gravely. "I do not see anything else that could make our death different from any other."

Silence again, before Verg picked up the conversation once more. "So we're like... emo-zombies. Demons. Devils."

Barely resisting the immature urge to roll his eyes, Razel shook his head. "You are set on naming what we are, aren't you."

Verg smirked, obviously done dwelling on feelings and the circumstances of their death. "Hell, you mean you haven't ever thought of a name? There's two of us now, can't call that unique anymore."

He paused, looking Razel up and down again. "Devil," he decided. "That's the highest kind of underworld spirit thing there is. Besides, you should see the depictions that have been going around for the, oh, last few centuries or something. Look like you."

"You mean 'us'."

"No, _you_."

Razel sighed. "You are not going to let this drop."

Verg's wolfish smile was answer enough.

\----

Contrary to his fears, if one could call them that, Verg proved to be half as annoying as he had first assumed. He was still a churl, and a barbarian who could not appreciate a fine blend of tea, but Razel had the distinct feeling that he liked to appear more boorish than he really was.

He surprised himself by leaving the flame portal open, something that required barely any conscious effort, despite the fact that it was like leaving one's front door open to anyone lumbering past. In his case, the only one "lumbering past" was a person who was very likely to become just as powerful as he was in only a short span of time, and Razel would have had to be a fool to believe for even an instant that their shared fate made them into friends.

At this point, one could barely even call them "allies".

Still, he left the portal open against his better judgment, his craving for companionship stronger than expected. Razel was quite certain that this should bother him much more than it really did.

Verg, for his part, did not seem inclined to accept the unspoken invitation, and kept his own portal tightly closed, except when he was spending time in the void, honing his powers.

Razel left him to his own devices, no matter how curious he was to see what a man from a different age could do, a man who had—according to his own words—been involved in what sounded like serious fighting. Eavesdropping was not a polite thing to do, however, and besides, he was certain that he would be able to experience a first-hand demonstration very soon.

\----

His expectations were not disappointed.

Before long, he could sense a presence entering the open portal, carrying the unmistakable feel of Verg's crest. Razel had found that he had become able to detect it much more easily, a faint signature that he could attempt to locate if he so desired.

He placed the book he had been reading on the table and folded his arms, waiting.

A moment later, the doors were pushed open with a little more force than necessary, Verg striding in with the gait of someone who owned the place, a type of large axe slung over his shoulder.

Razel nodded in greeting, and was rewarded with the churl swinging the weapon from his shoulder, grinning with sadistic glee.

"I suppose asking if you would like a seat is pointless," Razel observed, making a show of examining the rude entrant.

"Heh, last time I saw this baby, touching this would've zapped my finger clean off." Verg tapped the flat of the blade for emphasis. "I guess photons don't work here?"

"Photons?" Razel remembered reading about that. "Particles of... light?"

Verg shrugged. "Condensed energy."

"Ah. Some things in this world have... a mind of their own, I find."

"Right," Verg said, hefting the axe back on his shoulder. "Whatever. A blade's a blade, I guess. Anyway, how about a little one-on-one? I've been wanting to see you ruffled and sweaty for a while now."

Razel smiled, amused that he had been right, amused that Verg seemed to prefer acting like this was going to be a friendly game, instead of the battle for dominance they both knew it would be. He rose from his seat, tossing his hair back.

"Here?" he asked.

"Not a lot of options. Doing it in that black hole out there is boring, and my place is a fucking closet. You don't have a problem with a little... collateral damage, do you?" The grin, if at all possible, widened even more.

"I can make repairs," Razel assured him, motioning towards the door. "You will forgive me if I declare my bedroom a place for battles of a different kind, though. Personal space, and all that. May I suggest we try the east wing instead?"

\----

Verg whistled through his teeth once they reached the east wing gardens. "Now that's what I call an estate. They don't build houses like this anymore. Almost a shame to see it all get trashed."

"What, having second thoughts?" Razel mocked, assuming his stance a few feet away.

"No way," white-haired man grumbled, adjusting his grip on his axe. Then, his gaze fell to the dagger, still resting in its jeweled sheath against Razel's hip. "You gonna fight with that?"

"I have not decided yet," Razel said cryptically, enjoying the puzzled look on his opponent's face.

"Then—"

"Careful, you are starting to sound almost considerate."

"Fuck you," came the vulgar reply. "See if I'll try to be nice again."

Razel smirked. "I think you should worry more about whether you can _afford_ to be nice."

In lieu of a reply, the axe came down, splitting the neatly arranged path and sending out a wave of yellow lightning.

 _Most interesting._

A simple flame shield deflected the magic, but Verg wasted no time. He charged with a war cry, forcing Razel to duck out of the way of an impressive overhead swing. The blade sliced the air mere inches from his head, and he concluded then and there that Verg definitely had the skill to back up his reckless confidence. It would not do to underestimate his opponent, not at all.

Floating was as easy as breathing, carrying him away from the scattering gravel as the axe impacted, and Razel stretched out a hand, power ripping from his palm in a series of fiery bolts. A string of expletives marked Verg's only comeback as he was reduced to dodging the flaming missiles.

Landing on a bench across the courtyard, Razel sent a fiery homing spirit his way, not bothering to hold back a feral grin as his opponent was zigzagging back and forth, trying in vain to shake off the persistent flame zeroing in on his body heat.

"Fuck you!" Verg yelled in Razel's general direction, eventually throwing up an arm to shield himself from the inevitable blow. The electric field flaring to life around him seemed almost like an afterthought, too weak—too careless?—to withstand the force of the firebolt, prompting another bout of profanity when the flames scorched his clothes and skin.

When he caught sight of Razel smirking at him from a distance, he glared. "Fuck you."

"Hm, so you keep saying," Razel returned, a new flame igniting between his fingers. "I suggest you start getting serious soon. I have a low tolerance for child's play."

"I'll fucking show you serious!" Verg threatened, a single leap covering the distance between them, the axe smashing Razel's perch to pieces.

"Big talk," Razel's voice sounded from above, two fiery whips slicing through the air and barely missing their target as Verg hastily fell back out of range.

He retaliated by sending a series of lightning bolts after Razel, who avoided them easily in mid-air, once again landing a short distance away... only to have an ornamental balustrade come crashing down around him.

 _Decoys._

Narrowly evading the crumbling marble, Razel decided to take this battle to higher ground. Indeed, it would not do to underestimate this man. Although he seemed to prefer fighting like a brute, he was able to use strategy when forced. He landed on the outer wall, dusting off his clothes and shaking out his hair, feeling the sting of fine cuts on his face.

"Now I see what you meant by 'collateral damage'," he called.

Verg seemed not the slightest bit displeased that his attack had not been too effective. "What, worried now?"

"Not by far. But since you insist on using the scenery, I shall follow your example."

The sweeping gesture was not really necessary, but he found himself enjoying Verg's preemptive jump, which was followed by more cursing as he was forced to shield against a virtual hail of arrows.

"At least try to aim, you're insulting me a bit here!" he shouted, lowering his shield momentarily to survey the gardens, which had become littered with the thin red projectiles.

Razel chuckled, "What makes you think I missed?", as the battlefield erupted in a sea of flames.

"Bastard," came the croak a few seconds later, Verg appearing on the ledge a little worse for wear, face and chest streaked with ash, his pants slightly charred. The flickering shine of the flames lent the last edge of devilishness to his expression.

"I am quite certain of my parentage, thank you."

And they were off again.

Razel allowed himself to be driven back through the corridors, weaving in and out between the long rows of columns and decorative artifacts. He had the advantage of knowing the terrain, knew where the footing was tricky, where the architecture worked in his favor. It felt more than a game to him, dangerous though it was.

For his part, Verg was obviously delighting in his role of pursuer, although he was a lot less happy about having to rely on magic to aim for Razel. Not that he was lacking aptitude by any means, he simply seemed to prefer smashing his way along, though he was becoming more and more frustrated with the lack of likeminded response from his opponent.

"Fucking bastard," Verg finally growled over the sound of toppling columns crashing into each other. "Stop playing defensive and show me what you can do with that toothpick!"

"You were enjoying yourself so much, I thought I would let you exhaust yourself just a little bit further," Razel said, but decided to humor him.

"Alright, that's it, you're going down!"

It was amusing, how a little provocation caused Verg to disregard danger. How he did not even seem to _mind_ that he was rushing head-on into a trap, that Razel was letting him close

—the dagger feather-light in his palm, an extension of himself—

and then the ridiculous expression of surprise on his face when his assault was cut short by a blinding flare.

Verg yowled, too startled to even curse, only saved from skewering himself by his quick reflexes. The flame tongue seared into his flesh, cutting him clean across the chest.

For a split-second, he paused, stunned by the feel of warm blood dribbling down his torso. Razel paused, as well, allowing for the surprise to sink in, waiting for Verg's gaze to move from the damage done to his weapon, solid fire extending the dagger's reach, curving it into a scimitar.

"What the freaking flying—!"

Razel politely blasted open the door leading to the outer wall. "Shall we take this outside?"

Despite his injury, Verg appeared to be pleased by this turn of events. "Sure, less hindrance when I cleave you in two."

Razel did not even bother to dignify this with an answer.

Fighting his opponent head-on gave an entirely new edge to their duel. Verg's speed belied the weight of the axe, which he swung with barely any delay at all. After his initial run-in with the fire-blade, he had become much more wary of any tricks Razel might have up his sleeve, keeping up a near-constant guard.

Razel did not mind. It had been a long time since he had last been forced to work so hard for a victory, and he could not deny that despite the other's barbarous fighting style, he was enjoying himself immensely.

Presently, the heavy blows forced him into a defensive position, with a dead end waiting for him up ahead. He was not certain if he could spare the concentration to blast his way free, now that he had allowed this berserker so close.

He spotted the downward cut a fraction before it started on a trajectory for the vulnerable flesh of his sword arm, and jumped back out of reach. His reaction had been just a moment too slow, though, and while the axe failed to draw blood, its lightning charge connected solidly with the hilt of the dagger, sending it flying out of Razel's grasp.

Verg grinned triumphantly. "How about we call it my win? I'd hate to carve my name into your handsome face."

Razel calmly glanced at the weapon that was pointed at his throat. "As I said earlier, 'big talk'."

Before Verg had a chance to react, the ground beneath their feet exploded with the wrath of the sun. Too dazed by the blinding force of the explosion, the white-haired devil had no chance to shield himself from the fiery sphere that slammed into him, knocking him squarely into the falling debris.

Razel stayed afloat as the remains of the wall crumbled beneath him, fire dancing between his fingertips, waiting to see if Verg managed to recover.

He did not.

As the dust cleared, it revealed the sight of his opponent, his left arm crushed underneath a slab of marble, a sharp piece of stone sticking out from the middle of his stomach.

Apparently, getting beaten into a pulp and pierced by a rock was the funniest thing that had happened to him in a while, though, because he was laughing loudly between fits of coughing.

"Alright, not bad," he wheezed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "You got me there. Now kindly move that fucking boulder, will you. I'd do it myself, but I'm kind of... stationary at the moment."

Razel raised an eyebrow. "You yield?"

"What does it look like to you, huh?"

Razel stayed silent, waiting.

Verg glared a little. "Alright, fine. I fucking yield. There. Happy?"

Razel grinned, revealing sharp teeth. "Very."

\----

After the question of hierarchy had been settled, the yellow portal remained open.

Razel supposed that this was as much of an invitation as he was going to get, but he still took his time with actually taking Verg up on it. Personal space had always been a precious commodity in his former life, and he refused to give in to his own curiosity so quickly.

His first assessment, when he finally did step through the yellow flames, was that Verg had not been lying about the size of his living quarters.

The space consisted of a single room so packed with what could only be described as _stuff_ that it was difficult to even see the floor. Not that there was much to see in the room, the dim, cool glow of the overhead lights—not electricity, something else—barely reaching into the corners. In the center rose a vaguely rectangular tower, emitting a soft mechanical hum, multicolored lights sporadically winking in different places. Razel could not even begin to guess at their purpose.

It was, without a doubt, the strangest room he had ever seen—and he had seen a lot of strange rooms over the centuries.

A shape in the far corner suddenly moved, swaying slightly, before two white-clad legs unfurled from within, dangling down on either side. Almost immediately, the overhead lights brightened.

"Fucking hell," came the grumble as Verg struggled to sit up in what turned out to be a hammock. He rubbed a hand across his face, squinted at the light, and took note of his guest. "Oh, you."

Razel nodded in greeting. "I seem to have come at an... inopportune time. My apologies."

With some difficulty, Verg managed to move both legs to one side without tipping the contraption over, and got up. "Nah. Just didn't expect you at this time of night."

"It is day in my space," Razel said, allowing his gaze to stray over the gadgets littering various surfaces.

"Huh, weird."

"I had not thought that our internal clocks might be different. But it only makes sense."

"Internal clock?" Verg blinked at him, blinked at their surroundings, and walked over to a row of cabinets, where a strange pot was sitting. "Whatever. It's too early for this theoretical shit. I need coffee."

"The passage of time is an illusion of the mind here," Razel said, more interested in watching the other man feed black powder into the pot and flipping a switch. It was quite fascinating—personally, he never would have gone through the effort of actually brewing his tea, instead preferring to simply summon it, sweetened and ready to drink.

"Say what," Verg said, absent-mindedly scratching at the black tattoo on his stomach.

Razel nodded to the glowing face of what was, evidently, a clock, its numbers clicking nervously back and forth, back and forth. Verg squinted at it as if seeing it for the first time.

"Well, shit, what do you know."

Behind him, the machine finished whirring, an oily black liquid collecting in the glass pot. Its smell had little to do with Razel's own memory of coffee, but it would have been impolite to refuse the mug, no matter how rudely it was shoved at him.

The taste, however, led him to commit perhaps the first social faux-pas of his entire life. He coughed, barely resisting the urge to grimace. "What did you put in here?"

Verg quirked both eyebrows. "Uh, coffee?"

"What kind of coffee."

"Hell if I know, I never looked at the beans, I just cared about the buzz."

Razel truly hoped that his expression was not as incredulous as he felt. "You use the _beans_?"

"What else would you use?" Verg shot back, a little irritated.

"The fruit, of course."

"You're kidding."

Razel shook his head.

"Humans have been drinking this stuff for who knows how long and you're telling me they've been doing it _wrong_?"

Razel shrugged. "Humans also believed for the longest time that the Earth was flat, or so I'm told."

"Heh, flat," Verg snorted. "That thing can't even be called round anymore. More like... what was the word? Oh yeah, concave."

"... _Concave_ ," Razel reiterated, not quite certain whether the other man was serious or merely misappropriating the word.

"Yeah, blew a giant hole in the place. Or more like a couple of them. Don't ask me, I wasn't even around when it happened. But we sure got stuck with the nasty cleanup. Who knows, maybe it's not such a bad thing I croaked when I did. Certainly saved me the 'mutating-and-coughing-shit-up' part."

"Pardon?"

"Though there was the part where they said that it makes your jizz glow in the dark. No idea if that's true or not, certainly didn't work on mine. But the idea is hilarious."

" _Excuse me_?"

Eventually, Verg realized that the hilarity of the concept was completely lost on his guest, and shook his head.

"Allow me to introduce you to the instant solution to all of humanity's problems: the fusion bomb."

\----

Razel could not recall ever not seeing the sun.

There had been the rains, a front of inky clouds covering the skies in mere minutes and releasing a torrent, and there had been sandstorms, dirt and sand being whipped through the air until everything, even the people blindly stumbling through it, were covered with a fine yellow layer of dust.

But behind every storm, no matter how heavy, had been the sun, its power piercing the veil of clouds before long, its heat life-giving and deadly alike. Its presence had been so everlasting that the memory had followed Razel beyond death, lighting his space.

Being confronted with the roiling black dome spanning the sky, reaching from east to west, from north to south, as far as the eye could see, flashes of unnatural lightning jumping between the towering clouds while the winds whipped poisonous mist through the air trapped beneath, instilled in him a profound sense of disquiet.

Around him, the world was a wasteland of ruins and dust, flares igniting in the distance reflecting against the impenetrable sky.

Slowly, Razel turned his gaze to his summoner, a young woman dressed in what might have once been a combat uniform. Her skin was a sickly color, unnatural sores marring her face and disappearing into her neckline. A mask was dangling from her collar, presumably to protect herself from the poisonous dust in the air, but she seemed to be beyond caring, cradling a limp, grotesquely discolored body in her arms.

"Please," came her voice, so soft it was barely audible over the howling wind, "Please, bring him back. Bring my Aished back to me!"

"That," Razel said flatly, "is impossible."

"...You lie," the woman accused.

He narrowed his eyes. "What can be brought back will no longer be what it once was."

"I don't care."

There was no hesitation in her voice, not a trace of doubt. Razel tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "You would not care that your beloved's very essence cannot be recalled?"

"I said I don't care!" she snapped, a stark contrast to her earlier pleading tone. "He left me behind! How could he leave me behind?! We promised to always be together! We promised—and he left me. He. left. _me_."

"And so, you would punish him for his disobedience? ...Very well."

At a wave of Razel's hand, the dead body was enveloped in an unholy glow, spine stiffening and limbs jerking wildly. The woman gasped out something that might have been an oath, might have been her lover's name, as she recoiled from the gruesome spectacle. At last, the glow disappeared into the body, and with a final spasm, it lay still.

Hesitantly, the woman moved closer, reaching out to touch his cheek. "...Ai...shed?"

Disgusted with this display of human folly, Razel turned his gaze back to the pitch-black clouds, bolts of lightning still sizzling between them like living things. He heard the inhuman groan, heard the high-pitched scream of horror which tapered off into choked gurgling to the sounds of ripping flesh, but it did not seem as noteworthy as the sky.

It would be good, he thought as he felt himself begin to fade, to remember that sky.

\----

"So here you are! I was wondering where you went."

Razel admitted that making use of the bath might have been an excessive reaction, but he had seen no real reason to deny the urge. There was something profoundly irritating about being confronted with a world of such utter chaos, so cleansing his body, however superficial it was, was in its way a return to a world of order.

He looked up from his contemplation of the steam rising from the water's surface to regard Verg, who was looking around in the manner of someone who had just stepped into a very bizarre and alien scene, the feathers and fur of his clothes beginning to droop with moisture. The intrusion was not entirely unwelcome, as he found himself lacking answers, even though he did not yet know how to phrase the necessary questions.

"I didn't know your place had a pool. You never gave me the grand tour, come to think of it."

"It's a bath," Razel corrected in mild puzzlement.

" _Bath_? Are you kidding me?"

Razel quirked an eyebrow.

"Could make a guy jealous. I've never had a bath before."

Razel stared, wondering if he had misheard. "I suppose I should not put it past you, but I refuse to believe that you did not wash yourself."

Verg made a face. "Of course I did. What do you take me for? I've just never had water to use."

"Then how did you get clean?"

"Ion showers," Verg shrugged.

Frowning, Razel looked at him. He knew what ions were, tiny charged particles indiscernible to the naked eye. "Humanity has developed invisible showers, of all things."

The other man snorted in amusement. "Heh, if you put it like that... But you'd get creative, too, when things in the water can kill you horribly."

"Most likely," Razel conceded. Rising out of the water, he reached out to grab one of the linen sheets at the edge of the basin and began drying himself off. "Now then, was there something you wanted?"

This was, of course, addressing the proverbial elephant in the room. The other man never came without wanting something, be it a fight, company or entertainment, but the fact that he had entered Razel's space almost immediately upon his return hinted at something else.

Something flashed momentarily in Verg's eyes, before he shrugged nonchalantly. "Just wondering where you disappeared to. Couldn't feel your sign for a while."

"An unfortunate side effect of a devil's duties, I'm afraid."

"What, so you just go 'poof' in the middle of things?" Verg asked, "Like, if you're sitting in your fancy royal tub, or if I'm in the middle of choking the chicken..."

For a moment, Razel almost fell into the trap of asking why anyone would engage in such an inefficient disposal of farm fowl, but then he caught the devious gleam in Verg's eyes and knew better than to ask. "I do not know. It would certainly be... interesting to find out."

If possible, Verg's grin only widened. "I'm in favor of any experiment that involves keeping you wet and naked. I'd contribute my share, but that'd get messy fast."

Razel sighed. "You spend way too much time thinking about such matters."

"I'm the devil of pleasure. That's in my job description."

"I'm the devil of wrath," Razel said mildly, "...and I don't spend all my time thinking about how to fry your imbecilic ass, even though I probably should."

"I love it when you talk all crude like that."

Instead of replying, Razel wrapped the towel around his waist with an imperious flutter, and made his exit.

He did not hear footsteps, but was not surprised to find Verg following closely, his face now pinched into a frown that was half displeased, half contemplative. It was difficult to say what brought on these changes in his demeanor, as seldom as they occurred, but they served as the necessary reminder that Verg was an inherently unpredictable character. In the beginning, he had wondered whether the other man was using brazenness and joviality to conceal his true intentions, but now it seemed more to him that the mood swings were genuine. Verg, more often than not, seemed simply too lazy to bother with masks.

Razel suspected that he would find out the reason for this bout of brooding soon—Verg was also not in the habit of keeping quiet about things that bothered him.

He was in the midst of removing the multitude of pins used to hold up his hair when Verg, leaning against a chest of drawers with his arms crossed, chose to open his mouth.

"So, on a scale from one to ten, how fucked is Earth?"

Razel paused at the blunt question, before slowly pulling the pin he was holding out of his hair. "I am perhaps not the best judge of recent geographical changes, but it did not seem to be the most joyous place to live in. Or the most sane."

Verg merely snorted, his frown deepening.

Extricating the final pin, Razel shook out his hair, knowing full well that he was imbuing the action with a laughable importance. "I could not see the sun. There was nothing but black, poisonous clouds... darkness everlasting."

"…Solar flare."

"Excuse me?"

Verg had tensed, his eyes narrowed as if recalling a memory. "They called it solar flare. They were talking about developing it, is the last I heard. To deprive others of land, you take away their light. Or at least, that was the grand poetry the idea came wrapped in. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that such a thing could never... affect only a single area. I guess it's too much to hope they found ways to contain it."

Razel stayed silent. There was much here that Verg was not telling him, of that he was certain, but there had never been a mutual agreement to share life secrets, so he did not inquire any further.

"I suppose we shall find some more informative material on the subject in the library, courtesy of my summoner, mad though she was."

"Heh, I'd be surprised if you found anyone on the entire fucking planet still sane. They haven't been for a while. Hell, I'm not sure _I_ ever was."

Razel's lips twitched, somewhat amused at Verg's return to frequent cursing and poor grammar, which, paradoxically, also signaled the return of his good humor. "Consider me thoroughly in agreement."

"Bastard," Verg shot back, without any real rancor. "When you've got to be glad you weren't born with your organs on the outside or a few extra appendages, your expectations of health are kinda different."

"Indeed," Razel said.

"Most fucked-up thing? In some cases, they _live_. And of course, if you go out without a suit, you'll find your worst problem aren't the crazies with the guns or getting a bomb lobbed at your head, it's the air, because it will fucking eat you from the inside out. Throw in a couple of fucking giant mutant rats, and you've got yourself the average suburban lifestyle in 3000 AC."

As thinly veiled a detraction as it was, Razel allowed himself to be pulled along in conversation. Verg seemed to enjoy telling those gruesome tales immensely, only deflating a little when Razel proved to be a bad audience by not responding with horrified disbelief.

Perhaps, Razel thought, when one grew up surrounded by insanity, one found it easier to derive amusement from a broken world. In that respect, they were not so different—he himself found it so much easier to make sense of the world by labeling everything "human folly" and being done with it.

\- TBC -

  
\----

 **A/N:** Anybody still with me? XD


	3. Chapter 3

It was true that few things tended to faze him.

Perhaps that was the reason why he barely even quirked an eyebrow at the other man's presence in his chambers anymore, Verg stretched out on the large pillows, and sometimes even the bed, after the first three times Razel had ignited his pants because he had not possessed the courtesy to take off his boots.

He lounged like a churl, too, legs spread wide, toes plucking at the linen bed sheets, and taking up an obscene amount of space. His pastime mainly seemed to consist of napping, talking—his speech sprinkled with references that Razel, more often than not, only understood partially—and when he was not doing either, complaining of boredom.

He also sporadically felt the need to share revelations of great significance with Razel.

"You know what? Your room smells totally girly."

Razel blinked and mentally debated whether it was worth lowering his book. "You don't say," he finally said, glancing over the pages at Verg, who was lying upside down, his bare feet placed dangerously close to Razel's head. At least he was not foolish enough to try and invade his personal space.

Verg grinned. "Yeah. All fruity and... weird."

Razel resisted the urge to sniff haughtily. "Orange blossoms. And incense. For your information."

"See? Totally girly."

"If it bothers you so much, feel free to return to your own space," Razel said, and turned his gaze back to the pages.

"Nah, mine isn't all fancy and comfy like that."

"These spaces are representations of what we remember. I am sure you could alter yours, with a little willpower."

Verg stretched. "Too used to living in closet spaces."

Suppressing a sigh, Razel went back to his book.

After a period of silence, Verg spoke again. "You and your books. What are you reading this time, anyway?"

Razel glanced up again, to catch the other man regarding him with a lazy stare. "Gilgamesh."

He had been feeling a little nostalgic, but he was not about to reveal that to Verg.

"Gilga-what?" came the predictable reply. "I don't suppose your fancy library has anything interesting?"

"Like what."

"Porn mags?"

"Pardon?"

Verg's deviant grin told him that he should have known better than to ask, and after receiving a detailed description of "porn mags" and their contents, Razel felt more than inclined to agree. Verg, thoroughly satisfied that he had at last succeeded in unsettling him a little bit, agreed to let himself be introduced to nineteenth century erotica instead.

\----

Courtship, in Razel's time, had been an elaborate ritual.

Even in the lowest classes, there had been precise rules that needed to be followed, exact requirements that had to be fulfilled, in order to invite a person to share one's bed. And among the aristocracy, it had been unheard of that such invitations would be extended without proper wooing or outmost courtesy. To do anything else would have been considered an affront. Razel himself had made politeness into an art form, as he delighted in its finesse and subtleties, and saw no reason not to extend it even to his harem, despite the fact that most people would frown at bestowing politeness upon mere slaves.

Neither could he recall ever being propositioned before, as one simply did not proposition the king. Of course, there had been veiled glances, sometimes even thinly so—Razel was no stranger to desirous eyes following his every move, or temptations, from time to time, if the individual had been especially bold, even attempts at flattery or flirtation, but never anything overt, never anything that could not be taken another way.

So to be asked, in no uncertain terms, whether he wanted to "fuck"... was definitely something new.

Razel paused in retrieving a tome from one of the shelves in the palace library and turned to face the inquirer with an expression of mild curiosity.

"I beg your pardon?"

Verg, who was balancing one of the low-backed chairs on its hind legs, his feet propped up on the reading table, raised his eyebrows. "Oh come on, like you didn't hear me. I asked if you wanted to fuck."

"When I said that literature might have a stimulating effect on you, this is not quite what I meant."

"Heh, you're such a prude."

"Quite the contrary," Razel said calmly. "I simply do not see why I should lower my standards."

"Aw, you wound me," Verg sniffed, affecting a completely overdone expression. "I don't discriminate, as long as somebody looks like a good lay."

Razel smirked slightly. "And what tells me that you are?"

\----

"Why not?"

Razel raised his eyes over the rim of his book to meet Verg's direct stare. "Why not what."

"Why not agree to a fuck?"

It took a certain amount of control to will himself not to sigh. Of course, it had been too much to hope that his initial refusal would deter the man. If anything, the rejection had only served to encourage him, and he had begun to make a game of it, with terribly unsubtle puns and gestures.

Truth be told, if Razel had really wanted to have peace and quiet, he could have simply sealed the entrance to his realm, but he had refrained from doing so. He could not even say that he was especially uninterested in the offer, as strange as it was to be thinking about sex with another person after a few thousand years of solitude. Verg was not even all that unattractive—for an unmannered churl, of course—it was simply that Razel detested the idea of being "easy". Others who had wished for his benevolence had been forced to work for it, and had worked for it gladly. He saw no reason to change this policy.

"C'mon..." Verg had rolled over on all fours and was bending over him. Razel stared back, unimpressed. "You can't tell me something silly like _virtue_ is holding you back."

"No," Razel returned, "just good taste."

"You ever even done it with a guy before?"

"This has nothing to do with your original question, but if you must know, there were one or two slaves who had my favor."

"I asked if you ever did it with a _guy_ , not some simpering little slave boy," Verg scoffed. "Bet I know tricks that'd make your toes curl. I'd break you in nice and slow, just push aside that silly skirt and suck you, all deep and good. I bet you'd like that. I bet I could—"

The swift, warning pressure of Razel's fingers at his throat stopped him, his hands inches from the complicated knot tying the skirt.

"You seem to forget whom you are talking to," Razel said, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "My favor must be _earned_. I have no intention of agreeing to a tryst just because there are no options."

"Fuck you," Verg growled.

"You seem to be quite stuck on that. The way I see it, it is you who is begging _me_ for sex. I have spent around eight thousand years without a partner. I can easily survive another eight thousand. What about you?"

There was a heavy pause, filled only with Verg's measuring glare. "...What do you want."

"I want you to hold still."

For a moment, Verg seemed to hesitate, as if he were contemplating refusal, but then he gave a sharp nod. Smiling triumphantly, Razel reached between his legs. It was quite amusing to see the man's eyes widen, to feel him jolt when his hand closed around its target.

A slight push against his throat made Verg still again, small points of heat radiating threateningly from the black-gloved fingers.

"Son of a bitch."

"We can stop this," Razel said amiably, "if this is too hard for you."

"Fu—ah!"

Whatever profanity had been about to escape his mouth was lost when Razel began to move his hand, slow, precise motions and steady pressure. Making Verg want it was not particularly difficult; he was already half-hard, had been so from the beginning of his unrefined attempt at seduction, and Razel might have felt insulted if he had not been able to feel the trembling movement of his throat when he swallowed, his entire body rigid in an attempt to stop himself from moving.

Verg's gaze remained fixed on him, simultaneously defiant and challenging. And Razel had never been one to resist a good challenge.

"You want it faster, don't you?" he asked, a purely rhetorical question. Verg's hips were almost rocking, despite the threat of a crushed larynx.

"Shit, yeah," came the reply, hissed between clenched teeth. "Yeah, do it."

Razel withdrew his hand.

It took a moment for awareness to settle in Verg's eyes. "What the—?"

Razel smirked. "And now... I want you to wait."

"…Fuck. Until when?"

"Until I feel like giving you the time of day, of course."

He did not show Verg the door, but that was not really necessary—he vanished in a yellow flare, the furious crackle of lightning echoing through the room in the wake of his disappearance, bringing a smile to Razel's lips.

\----

Verg's departure was but a temporary one. The next day, he returned, and although he did not say anything on the matter, Razel could feel his eyes on him the entire time—unveiled and predatory, like he was waiting for a chance to pounce.

The intent in that gaze, nothing at all like the casual attention from before, was what kept Razel's interest, what turned this into a game worth playing. To be perfectly honest, he had not expected Verg to go along with his conditions so thoroughly, but once again, the man had managed to surprise him.

Verg did not bring up the topic again; in fact, he did not speak much at all, but simply kept following him with his eyes. At first, Razel pretended to ignore it, but after a time, he found out that paying minute attention to this overt scrutiny made Verg stiffen and sit up a little straighter, expectant despite himself, until he finally noticed the ruse and slumped in his chair, cursing Razel under his breath.

A day later, Razel found himself pushed against the wall in a sparring match, the handle of the axe pressing against his throat and Verg's breath hot against his ear.

"I'm still waiting. Aren't I a good boy?"

Spoken with an edge of strained patience, of barely perceptible menace— _Right now, I could get away with anything. You're at my mercy._

The implicit threat made Razel smile, despite the fact that it was quite empty. "Very good. Would you like me to reward you?"

The only response was Verg's pupils dilating as he reached out to loosen the latch of his belt, sliding a hand inside. It was almost too easy—Verg was already half-aroused before he even touched him, readily pushing into his hand, panting and shuddering when Razel ran sharp nails along the sensitive flesh.

At the first hint of wetness, Razel pulled away, waiting a fraction of a second for awareness to register on Verg's face, before searing him straight across the stomach.

\----

It did not really surprise when Verg began to appear in his bath, the intrusion a subtle warning that his patience was wearing thin. But still, he did not act.

Anyone else would have likely been intimidated by the unwavering stare piercing the steam, but to Razel, it felt almost… exciting. He had never been able to engage in this kind of game before, certainly not with someone who had no real _reason_ to follow his orders. If Verg noticed that he was dragging out his routine, he did not say anything, and after two more days of this, Razel decided that such restraint deserved to be honored.

When Verg followed him from the bathroom to the bedroom, he paused. "You have not come yet, have you?"

"No."

Dead-seriousness and no hesitation. Allowing a pleased smile to show, Razel turned to face him.

"What if I told you to wait longer?" Reaching down, he slowly untied the towel from around his waist. "What if I told you that I am going to let you come if you impress me?"

A barely perceptible intake of breath. "What do you want."

Razel's eyes flashed. "The way I recall you boasting of your skills, this should be easy for you. Show me what that crude tongue of yours can do."

"Fuck," Verg breathed. "You want that?"

"Hm. I propose we retire to the bed, though. It seems rather more comfortable for activities like these."

"Heh, prude."

"Not at all," Razel said. "I was merely being considerate, since I doubt you will be standing at all once I am done with you."

\----

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed, was passing in the real world, as they remained locked in timeless darkness. The only thing Razel could be certain of was that neither of them had been called in a very, very long time, longer than any period of silence he had ever experienced before.

In the beginning, Verg had kept complaining about the inactivity and making a nuisance of himself, sometimes even provoking Razel into using his powers to achieve a little peace and quiet, but he had given that up long ago. Now, he had redirected most of his complaints towards Razel's choice in authors and beverages. Razel suspected that his protests were more a matter of principle than anything else, as he kept picking and reading books, regardless, and downing mint tea with as much refinement as one could expect from a churl, which was to say, none at all. Most of the time, Razel found himself willing to indulge him—Verg was not nearly as brutish as liked to present himself, and could actually be persuaded to engage in interesting, meaningful discourse at times.

Razel found himself willing to indulge him in other aspects, as well; the man's complete lack of manners or restraint during sex was oddly attractive, and his remarkable streak of sadomasochism was something that bore further study. His tendency to snore afterwards with the volume of a thunderstorm was regrettable, but after what must have been a few hundred years, Razel had noticed that he had mysteriously gained the ability to sleep through it.

But the one thing that told him that it really must have been a _very_ long time, indeed, was when he caught himself crunching on the distasteful caffeinated candy Verg was unreasonably fond of, and discovered that he really did not mind the flavor that much anymore.

\----

"Hey… How long were you planning on hiding this beauty from me, Mr. Flawless?"

Sex made Verg amazingly mellow, though no less of an imbecile. His newest pastime, if one could call it that, was examining Razel's body for clues to his past, and demanding the stories behind them. Since Razel had not been especially forthcoming on the subject, he had begun to make up his own, which were utterly ridiculous and a fairly plump attempt in annoying Razel into revealing the truth.

Currently, his attention was on two long, thin, crescent-shaped scars on either side of Razel's left thigh, so faded that they were hardly visible against the rest of the skin.

"Let me guess… a cobra."

Razel twitched his leg to make Verg stop prodding. "I sincerely doubt the animal would be able to open its jaws wide enough for that."

"You haven't seen what Mother Nature came up with in recent years." Verg thought for a moment. "Alligator wrestling."

Razel gave him a look.

"C'mon, tell me. I'll tell you one of mine, too."

"You are not going to give up on this, are you," Razel said. "Fine. Pet lion."

"Wait a minute, there's no way in hell a baby lion—"

"Who said it was an infant?"

"Dude. You had a full-grown pet lion _maul_ you?"

"In her defense, it was a love bite," Razel shrugged, "and I was eight."

After a good minute of staring at him like he was crazy, Verg shook himself. "You are unbelievable."

"I will choose to take that as a compliment," Razel said. "Now then, I believe you owe me something."

Verg grinned, like he had just been waiting for it. "Do you know how I got that?"

He was pointing to his eyes, waggling his fingers between the gray and the green pupil.

"I would think it is fairly obvious that I do not know."

"Wanna?"

Razel sighed and made a prompting gesture.

"I got punched in the face."

"I can't imagine why anyone would do that," Razel returned, rolling his eyes when Verg broke into uproarious laughter.

\----

"You ever wonder what happens to us if there's no one around anymore?"

Razel looked up from moving one of his white disks across the board, to catch Verg regarding him with an uncharacteristically contemplative stare, his mind not at all on the game spread out between them. The man's ability to ask the most difficult questions at the most unexpected times never ceased to amaze him, making him wonder just what was going through his mind.

When he remained silent, Verg continued, "I mean, do we just stay here until the universe implodes or something?"

"...I doubt it," Razel said, after a pause.

"But you don't know?"

Razel smiled wryly. "One never knows what is on the other side until one gets there, isn't that how it goes?"

"Bull," Verg retorted, leaning forward to claim one of Razel's white disks with his own black one and tossing it back to him. "You can't tell me you don't have a gazillion theories doing a chorus line in your fancy head. And anyway, you've been here a lot longer than me. You know how this works."

"Not nearly well enough," Razel said, which was the truth. He rolled the dice and put the disk back into play.

"But?"

"But I think the most likely scenario is that we will... fade."

Verg was looking at him expectantly.

"You have noticed it, have you not? What brought us here, what ties us to the other world. What sustains us."

Frowning slightly at the colorful tiles, Verg nodded, rolled the dice and moved his piece again. "There's just a tiny little problem, then."

Razel moved his piece towards the goal and jotted down the points.

"Half-life."

"Pardon?"

"The time it takes for the shit they spread all over the planet to change into other shit. Until it finally becomes harmless. You know how long that takes?"

"Do tell," Razel said, leaning forward with interest.

Verg grinned mirthlessly. "Something around four hundred thousand years. At least."

Razel drew his brows together, rolling the dice back and forth in his palm. "The world I have seen was dying. Poisonous and unfit for human life."

"Exactly. So that's making me wonder. Why are we still here?"

" _Res ipsa loquitur_ ," Razel murmured.

"Bah, stop that," Verg said, grimacing. "I never got your fetish with that language."

"I seem to recall you being quite enamored with it last night."

"Don't make me kick you in the Latin quarter."

Razel smiled. "'The thing speaks for itself'. The answer is fairly obvious, I would think."

Slowly, he reached out and moved his final disk to the goal.

"There is something out there, keeping us alive."

\----

For all his experience with summoning, Razel had never had the chance to observe it.

By impression alone, it was quite difficult to describe, something that was as much a force from the outside as it was something from within, an urge perhaps, or a need, although neither word truly fit the sensation. Even the brief feeling of disorientation he had experienced in the beginning had gradually disappeared.

So when Verg vanished in a bright yellow flare in mid-conversation, it was definitely something new.

Catching Verg's newly ownerless cup in his palm, Razel settled back to wait.

\----

"Cats."

"Welcome back," Razel said calmly, heating the cups again with a flick of his wrist. "Tea?"

"Fuck that," Verg said, pinching the bridge of his nose to combat the spell of dizziness. "There is a world out there. Populated. By freaking _kitty-cats_!"

"From what I understand, most so-called civilized societies are outnumbered by the pets they keep. But I take it this is not what you are referring to?"

"I want booze. I want to get drunk. Why can't I fucking get drunk anymore?"

"I suppose if you concentrate on your memory of being drunk..." Razel suggested, more amused than anything else. In all the time he had known Verg, he had never seen the man being quite so melodramatic.

"That would defeat the entire purpose of trying to become drunk," Verg grumbled, and gracelessly flopped down on the sitting pillows.

Razel waited for a while to see if any information would be forthcoming, but eventually prompted, "Cats?"

"Quit reminding me," Verg said, "It's like a freaking vegetable patch exploded all over the place. Giant trees and plants everywhere."

"I would think that compared to a toxic wasteland, this is most definitely an improvement."

"Would be, if it weren't inhabited by a race of _kitty_ people."

Razel's brows almost rose to his hairline. "Cat people? This is... most interesting."

Dismayed by the lack of moral support, Verg groaned. "Only you would think so. At first, I thought I'd walked in on a costume party, with all the ears and tails."

"Anthropomorphic cats, then? The ways of evolution are truly... fascinating."

"This isn't fascinating, this is insulting. As if serving fucking humans wasn't bad enough."

"Clearly, you have never met any of the imbeciles I had to deal with over the ages," Razel replied.

"They're _pets_. Skittering around all bug-eyed and bristling when you lift a finger and going 'Lord Verg this' and 'Lord Verg that'... ugh. Wimps."

"Let me just see if I comprehend," Razel said slowly. "You are complaining about being _revered_? I would say that makes them an improvement over humanity already."

Verg paused, blinked, and frowned slightly. Suddenly, a dirty grin lit on his face. "You know what, you're _right_."

There was a pause as Verg absorbed this new revelation, and then, "Hey, maybe this won't be so bad. I mean, sure, civilization has gone ass-backwards since I last saw it, but anything's an improvement over nuclear warfare."

"Backwards?"

"Well, I didn't really see much of it. Busy dealing with a bunch of pets, and all that. But it all seemed pretty simple. Rickety houses, wooden contraptions. Tons of pseudo-voodoo stuff."

"Ah," Razel said. "I suppose we can only hope for the library to yield some information, then."

Verg nodded, "You know... I wonder if somebody thought about making a kitty sex ed book. I'd love to read that."

Razel blinked and decided that no amount of culture shock could deter the man's one-track mind.

"I wonder if they fuck like cats. I mean. You know how cats do it. Actually, do you think they have spikes down there? Or kitty-tongues. I wonder what it feels like to get licked by a kitty-tongue."

Draining his cup, Razel rose from his chair. "As fascinating as contemplating the sexual activities of an unknown species may be, I shall be on my way to the library. To my knowledge, there was a much-celebrated twentieth-century psychologist who might have a name for your fetishes."

\----

While Verg regrettably seemed to use his discoveries to fuel his deviant fantasies, Razel was much more interested in the workings of the new world than in the many uses of cat ears.

The Ribika literature—for so they preferred to call themselves—was one of the most elaborate and refined collections of music and poetry he had ever seen, one that would have made many a human artist envious, and for this craft alone, they considerably rose in Razel's esteem. What he was less than pleased with was their tendency to mystify events, no matter if they were normal or unusual, and their complete inability to keep consistent historical records. There were even cases of one and the same village chronicler constantly contradicting himself, which made puzzling out their history unnecessarily complicated. More often than not, when more than one report on an event was available, they tended to differ vastly in their presentation, quite obviously colored by their authors' beliefs and superstitions.

Indeed, superstition seemed to be the primary undertone, or even motivation, for producing texts, apart from something Razel would have been inclined to label an "unusually high degree of sentimentality", had the authors been human. The lack of scientific approach to worldly matters bothered him to an extent, but when he himself finally had the opportunity to see the land, however briefly, he immediately felt it, something Verg had predictably, thoroughly missed.

The land was teeming with magic, every inch of earth, every plant and being suffused with an energy that was nearly impossible to describe, save for the fact that it was completely different from the magic Razel could feel running in his own veins. It was small wonder that a world so drenched with magical power should produce beings sensitive to the supernatural, when their world was so ripe with phenomena Razel's own knowledge of science could not hope to explain.

Two moons and no sun, yet a world warm with light. A lake of water, its surface hard like glass. A circle of stones in a field of yellow and red, bearing both of their signs.

So, for the most part, he found himself withholding his judgment, partially because he had been confronted with a new species, and partially because not doing so would mean lowering himself to the imbecile's level, who tended to scoff at the Ribika's sophistication.

Razel privately thought about ruined towers under a poison sky, and did not say anything.

\----

"Such a shame I couldn't stay and see the end of it. You should've been there. It was like... live-action drama or something. The whole village after them like a bunch of good old-fashioned witch hunters. All that was missing were the pitchforks, really."

Razel frowned disdainfully. Verg's habit of meddling in the affairs of the Ribika was bothersome, mostly because it was so unnecessary. The man seemed to delight in having puppets to dance at his will, a behavior Razel found unfit for a being of their power and standing. It was rather like stomping on ants to see them squirm and scramble, a pointless upsetting of structures.

"I refuse to believe that you did not have a hand in this."

"Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't," Verg shrugged, smirking. "It sure didn't hurt to see that insolent little bugger taken down a notch. All this time I spent chipping at his attitude, and the thing to break him is a _woman_. Figures."

Razel snorted.

"What?"

"I find it oddly amusing," Razel said, "that you would allow one of those 'wimpy kittens' to get to you so much."

"That's got nothing to do with it," Verg said, his pleased expression fading. "He just needs to know his place, for all the cheek he's been giving me. Let's hope they'll call me again in a few days, I'd love to see how that turned out."

" _Cedes maiori_ ," Razel murmured.

Verg glared. "What did you say?"

Razel smiled and decided to stay silent on the matter. Even if he were to translate the words, explaining their meaning to Verg would be an exercise in futility. The man would never understand that he had yielded to one greater by lowering himself to such petty games. "Clearly, I have been neglecting your training, if you now go looking for your opponents among mortals."

Verg, predictably, rose to the challenge. "Heh, wanna make something of it? I'm gonna have you eat—"

Suddenly, the space began to shake, the floor vibrating, the great columns almost swaying, dust trickling down from the walls and things tumbling down from their proper perch. Razel caught himself from lurching forward, but Verg ended up slipping out of his chair.

When the reverberations faded away, he straightened from his undignified position. "The fuck? Since when does this place have earthquakes?!"

"It doesn't," Razel said, dusting off his robes and negligently waving a hand to repair the damage done to his rooms.

"Then what does this mean?"

Razel rose from his seat, the red portal shimmering into existence almost at the same time.

"It means things are about to get interesting."

\- FIN -  



End file.
